


Let's Hear It for the Boy (My Baby He Don't Talk Sweet)

by sa00harine



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: I am ridiculously fond of dancer eddie., M/M, also can you tell this is me indirectly whining about my dance class, and Bill is an absolute mess! good 4 him right, anyways Richie is feral, because it is, eddie is Tired, it really is, kinda sappy @ the end, so is richie though, stan is done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-26 07:24:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20926361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sa00harine/pseuds/sa00harine
Summary: It wasn’t that hip hop was bad or anything. Hip hop was based off of confidence and funk, and Eddie didn’t carry that. Eddie Kaspbrak carried the ability to do twenty perfect turns with unparalleled spotting ability (and top notch technique) at the drop of a hat. But hip hop? No, no. Fuck no. He didn’t like it. Not at all.





	Let's Hear It for the Boy (My Baby He Don't Talk Sweet)

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Before anything else, I'd like to mention the fic that inspired this (and consumed my life for about a week) which is On Pointe by @tossertozier! I'd strongly recommend reading that if you liked this because it is AMAZING.  
Hope you enjoy this culmination of my dance class combo and my obsession with IT as of late.
> 
> <3

_-8, and 1, 2, 3, hips on 4, swing swing, 7, 8 ball change, arms, hop side, side, drop, 8. _Eddie dimly hears one of the girls beside him whisper to her friend over the blaring music and staggered breathing. She says, through clenched teeth, “imagine how smart the dimwit who thought of our final thought he was.” 

Her friend giggles as they mark through the given choreography. Eddie was incredulous. The choreography was meant to warm them up, but he was already decently winded by their sixth or so listen of the song. Soon they’d have to go across the floor, and Eddie dreaded that. 

Actually, he dreaded this entire thing. He downright _detested _it. Some asshat on the dance panel at their college had come up with the brilliant idea to have the two main dance majors, ballet and hip hop, learn each other’s styles and test on it for their final. They claimed that it would impact their ability to get by in the dance world, having to have knowledge of all dance styles in case an opportunity arose. Which, that was fine- Eddie had had his fair share of indulging in other mediums like jazz or improv or even musical theatre through his dance career, but of all things, he was getting graded on _hip hop? _

It wasn’t that hip hop was bad or anything. Hip hop was based off of confidence and funk, and Eddie didn’t carry that. Eddie Kaspbrak carried the ability to do twenty perfect turns with unparalleled spotting ability (and top notch technique) at the drop of a hat. But hip hop? No, no. Fuck no. He didn’t _like _it. Not at all.

But had that stopped him from stubbornly stationing himself at the front of the room in order to learn? No, of course not. 

The hip hop studio was very, very different from the ballet one, needless to say. Instead of broken in ballet shoes crumpled in the corners, clumps of hoodies and socks lay strewn across the places between rows of dancers. The mess was slight, but enough to disturb him. (He grew up in a home where one misplaced dish could earn him a spot grounded in his bedroom for a week, no fucking wonder Eddie was like this.) Then, instead of simply another grey wall with patterns in the wallpaper (for spotting purposes), the entire front of this room was one massive mirror. That part was normal, at least. The majority of dance studios Eddie had trained at shared that one feature, and he was used to it by now, but his ballet professor’s strict philosophy of _if you absolutely need a mirror to repeat my actions, then you haven’t been training hard enough; you should be stage-ready every second of my class, and if you find yourself behind, you have already failed, _had removed that aspect from his routine. He was half relieved and half unsettled in the presence of the mirror, but used it accordingly to view his progress- which wasn’t much yet. Additionally, the piano in the corner of the ballet room wasn’t here. There was a stool now, with a laptop connected to it which Richie was manning, repeating the same two minutes of the track over and over again. 

After the college’s spring dance show, Richie had been convinced- though Eddie didn’t doubt he would have just come on his own time anyway- to step in as the full time class and rehearsal pianist. Obviously, hip hop didn’t include piano. Hip hop was a cacophony of ear-splitting riffs, beats, and a whole lot of innuendoes, apparently, according to the choreography he’d gotten. Eddie strongly preferred the tranquil, layered sounds of piano. He wasn’t one for obnoxious songs called _Dance Like Yo Daddy. _He really wasn’t. 

Oh, but Richie was. You’d think he’d take the offer for a day off of piano when it was presented, but no, of course he didn’t. Richie was happy to watch Eddie fumble up choreography while grinning maniacally to the same pitchy song for the entire two-hour class. Except, Eddie caught him soften once or twice. He’d stop for a breath, hands on his knees and hair slick with sweat hanging in his eyes, and when he’d swipe it away, he’d meet eyes with Richie. The man- _his _man- _his boyfriend _now, geez- would smile at him and he’d haul off to practice again with a small smile playing at his own lips. 

He’s just slumped onto the floor for a break, Richie’s grey shirt clinging to his back and his own dance shorts digging into his legs, when his ballet teacher’s voice rang through the studio walls. Hell’s bells, he thought. 

“Eddie, can you run it solo? I want to see your turns. I think you’re doing a ballet pirouettes instead of jazz pirouettes.”

The heads of all the ballet dancers in his period mingled with the lingering few hip hop dancers who hadn’t gone to the ballet studio turn towards him expectantly. He was surprised that many people knew his name. Then again, being the boyfriend of the notorious campus trashmouth had elevated his social circle many, _many _levels. Richie Tozier was magic like that. 

He scrambles to his feet, mocking burn running up his calves and settling into his shoulders, elbows, and abs like acid trying to melt through his skeleton. “Sure.” 

The music starts, an array of repulsing beats and harmonizing female voices. Eddie folds his right leg behind his left, and cocks his hip to begin. She sings something and a beat drops. It shakes the studio just slightly enough that he can feel through his nikes (not ballet shoes, not even _jazz _shoes.) as he takes his first series of steps forward. And yes, he despises watching himself approach in the mirror. He’s already started to evaluate himself and he’s not even a full eight-count through yet. 

He scuffs the floor with his feet, ducks his head, looks up, and elbows thin air that drives him into a plie while his arms flail around. Eddie straightens his form as he whisks into the next set of direction- the song changes beat just a little, and he lightens up a little. When it’s just him and he has this kind of focus, it gets easier. 5, 6, _7, 8 arms up, chest, back, hands on 3, turn on 4, clap! _Yes, he does do a ballet pirouette, and he isn’t sorry because it was a _damn good one. _He’ll get to adjusting it sometime before the actual final. _6 side, side, elbows out, 8 down, legs turned in, 2 and jump jump jump jump! _He doesn’t quite zone out, but he leaves his body in a strange form of calm that only came to him sometimes, usually only when he knew the attention was directed at him- that he was getting tested. Not graded, but tested by everyone watching, somehow. 

His eyes meet Richie’s for a moment, and he suppresses laughing himself out of the concentration he’s worked himself into. Richie’s eyes are wide, and his mouth hung open just a little. _Nice. _Eddie grins as his fists pound the air in front of his chest on _3,4,5,6 shoulder roll, step, shoulder roll, step, step. _

The last twenty seconds or so go by in a whirlwind of chest isolations, body rolls, and popped feet. He finishes the final kick with a determined, prickly demeanor replacing whatever persona he took when he was dancing. Now that he had ceased moving, Eddie became more or less aware of the penetrating stares at his back, and, more importantly, the song that hadn’t stopped playing. It appeared their disc jockey had temporarily malfunctioned. Richie leans against the wall, laptop in his hands, and features still trained on Eddie. 

Then the Trashmouth snaps out of it. 

“Sorry everyone, just proud of Eds ‘Ass’ McGee over here,” Richie says unabashedly over the blare of the music. 

Eddie feels his face flush and rolls his eyes in lieu of any form of reply that the few that heard Richie might have expected from him. He hears a taut, _thank you, Eddie _from his professor, and sits down on the floor while more of his classmates are asked to dance solo or in small groups. 

He alternates between stretching and marking the dance through on the side in case he’s summoned to the floor again. (Another thing- the ballet room had the ideal dance floor- both marley _and _sprung, while the hip hop room had wooden floors, which were a _bitch _for his feet.) He’s sure Richie wants to talk to him, and he wants to approach Richie as well, but he frankly has no clue how to go about it since Richie called him something something _ASS MCGEE _to the entire dance program. Was he supposed to wear that nickname like a golden star? No fucking way, he was still getting past ‘Eds.’

“Come center, everyone. We have notes.” The ballet professor- Mrs. Tilden, who he well respected and possibly feared just a bit because she had the grace of an angel and the temper of a snapping turtle- was whispering to Cory, who was the new hip hop teacher for the year. The old one had just been recruited for a tour of some sort, and his apprentice had been offered his job. Eddie didn’t like hip hop, but Cory was amiable and closer- _way _closer to their age than Mrs. Tilden, and it was kind of refreshing, really. He was twenty-two, fresh out of his own college dance program. A fair contrast to Tilden’s forty-seven. 

They gather, even Richie comes closer, offering Cory his laptop back. Cory smiles, and Richie initiates a fist-bump. Richie takes a seat behind Eddie, drumming his fingers on Eddie’s shoulders as Cory clears his throat. 

“Hi everyone! I’m happy to meet you all and to dance around with you for a bit. We all have this class five times a week for two hours, and for that time, every class, I ask you put in as much effort as you did today. It’ll be fun, I promise.” He chuckles sincerely in a way that makes it impossible to hate him. _This is the man that made you dance like Britney Spears in ‘Hit Me Baby One More Time’ and look happy about it, _Eddie reminds himself. “I think you all did great and I know this new final rubric is a real challenge for you ballet students, but we can do this! I have faith in every single one of you.” 

They give a round of applause at that, being brought up in studios where applause was expected if another dancer so much as moved or their teacher gestured in a way that looked particularly graceful. Dance classes, Eddie thought, were at least 70% clapping for other people. 

Mrs. Tilden nods in response before whipping out her dreaded notepad. She offers no preamble before launching into a blunt array of notes. “Ava, Gabbie, Eric, you all brought your arms to a second position instead of a T shape. You need to learn how to correct small mistakes before you audition for dance companies. They expect better. Dolan, don’t trip over your feet in the middle sequence again. If you injure yourself like that in the real world, you’ll be fired or out of work. Don’t waste your potential with clumsiness. Martha and Eddie, you _both _disappointed me today. Jazz pirouettes, not ballet. Those go back to when you were eight years old. Simple technique, _baby classes. _You aren’t babies. I want those corrected before class ends. Janice, Sarah, you-” The rest fades into white noise as Eddie retreats into his own head. He knew that was coming, but did she have to be so _harsh _about it? He had just finished her brutal sets of choreography in the dance showcase, and he sure as hell wasn’t a disappointment. Hip hop wasn’t meant for him. He did ballet for a reason, and maybe- _maybe _the two majors weren’t supposed to mix. _Insane, _absolutely _crazy idea. _

Richie’s hand crawls between his shoulder blades, knuckles pressing against his spine how he likes. Eddie conceals a sigh as a huff and leans back. He can practically feel Richie’s grin as his hands swiftly massage Eddie’s back. Richie loved doing this, and well, Eddie wouldn’t be the one to deprive him of that. (And it felt _really _fucking good. He was called Trash _mouth _, not Trash _hands _for a reason; and that reason was that Richie knew how to use his hands.) 

Their time is up before Richie could do something foolish or Eddie can melt too far into his fingers, like a wax candle, he thought. Tilden and Cory were going off to the ballet studio for the next hour, to teach the hip hop kids some proper technique. His class was left to clean the choreography. They were expected to look quote on quote _pristine, sassy, and full-out _by the time the teachers returned. 

So Eddie gets to his feet. He sees Richie tilt his head before one of the girls is ushering him over and shoving the laptop into his arms. Richie and Eddie meet eyes one more time before the music starts and they both vanish into their practices. 

Half the class is running the song over and over while the rest adjust what they’d gotten addressed for. Eddie and the other girl- Martha Slaysack, who attended his same studio when they were fifteen or so, find an uncrowded spot near the mirror to turn. Martha was in his psychology course (don’t ask him why he took psychology- he needed more extra classes to fill his schedule and Mike and Bev had both taken it before) and the two worked well together. He didn’t mind her soft spoken, easy presence any more than she minded his wound up, nervous energy. They took turns to the beat together, and Eddie psyched himself up until he was steadily meeting his own eyes in the mirror every time. He wouldn’t admit it under torture, but it did work well enough. He got his feet to turn in, and after some time, his posse to turn in as well. Martha was doing about the same, only occasionally grunting because one of her feet wouldn’t turn in all the way. 

They took a small break, marked the dance once, and went back to practicing when they both did a ballet pirouette again. Between tired laughter, Eddie actually found himself having fun. 

This time, instead of spotting his own face (- which he hated by the way. Seeing his own expression, which was either schooled exhaustion or harrowing boredom hiding a wild cacophony of intrusive thoughts, made him cringe. Every. Damn. Time. It’s not that he was insecure. Eddie knew he was fine compared to some of the guys his age. Just, every time he saw himself while he was dancing, it never failed to thwart off the discipline he’d been building. One second, a trained dance student going through the motions of a turn, and the next, Eddie Kaspbrak pulling a face at himself in the mirror like a puberty-ridden preteen girl in middle school.) he decided to glance around for something else to spot. Naturally, his eyes fell on the loud, neon flower-patterned shirt Richie was wearing today. It was black with bright green and orange flowers across the chest and it was unbuttoned to reveal a white shirt underneath with mysterious smudges around the collar Eddie convinced himself not to ask about. The shirt was unforgivable yes, and nauseating even, but it was the ideal tool for spotting. Once he saw it, his neck automatically swiveled back to catch it and soon enough, his turn issue was fixed. 

He thinks Richie caught him once or twice, but maybe he doesn’t mind. Not when the latter just smiles warmly, brightly, (Eddie nearly died laughing the first time this thought occurred to him, but Richie’s smile reminded him of that cheesy, sparkling ones they used in dentist commercials. The ones with the little _ding! _and sparkle over perfect teeth.) and pushes his glasses up even if they weren’t even falling in the first place. 

“... nine, ten, eleven-oh! Woah, Eddie. I can only do seven on a good day. Shit,” Martha is saying, voice tinged with mild amusement and indistinguishable awe. 

And because today, for some reason, isn’t feeling like that much of a drag anymore, Eddie beams from the praise. “Practice,” is all he says with a shrug as he pulls his socks back up. They’ve still got about twenty minutes to run the whole thing. 

He rushes to the floor, not too subtly shoving his way up to the front so he could dance it a final time for the day. Half-way through, when he really gets it in his bones, the music comes to an abrupt stop. For a surreal moment, they keep moving while fleeting echoes bounce off the walls. Then the robust energy of a clan of actual hip hop dancers enters the room, and Eddie and the rest stop in their tracks. Richie hands the laptop again to Cory and sits down near the feet of Tilden. Richie is the only person on campus who Eddie knows doesn’t fear Tilden. It’s mind boggling and infuriating. He remembers on Richie’s first day playing piano for them, she sternly reprimanded him for playing noisy pop songs in the intervals between leaning actual sets of choreography, and he’d fixed her with a smooth smile and said gallantly _sorry miss’iz, just trying to keep these kids’ energy up _with a roll of his eyes Eddie, at the time, had lingered on for one long, bitter moment. And Tilden _laughed. _She _laughed. _Now, looking back, Eddie wanted to take that stupid face and kiss it blue. Richie Tozier was a fucking paradox man. Ben had told Eddie he’d once seen Richie eat a dime because he didn’t feel like finding his wallet, but Stan had been witness to Richie passing every single one of his finals without so much as glancing at his textbooks. Richie himself had owned up to being the one who covered the campus statue in white wallpaper perfectly drawn in sharpie with dicks, while on the same night staying up late before an exam to help Beverly size a dress for her final fashion project. This was the doofus Eddie got to fall in love with, and sitting here on a sweaty dance floor with Richie’s soft eyes on him, he could actually say truthfully he was comfortable with that. Enormously lucky, even. 

The class ends, and Richie leads him out with a gentle, eager hand at the small of Eddie’s back. Immediately his mouth starts running. “Eds, I was like a fucking basketcase back there. Not to alarm you or anything, but you looked hot as _fuck! _You can’t go all _Dance Moms _and all _stripper _okay? That’s too much for me on this wee’ old Tuesday morning.” 

“Shut up Richie,” he says under his breath, coaxing back a smile. 

The words elicit a chuckle from the other man, who sheds his ugly-ass shirt to drape over Eddie. And Eddie doesn’t pull it closer because he just now notices that he has goosebumps. (Maybe a little bit.) 

If the halls were chilly, consider the courtyard between the different buildings freezing. It was spring now, sure, but it was still _cold. _He says as much as they walk back to Eddie’s room. 

“Lucky you have me then, right?” Richie smirks, scooping him up in a way Eddie found ridiculously hot and sort of endearing. (See? Paradox man.)

“Maybe I am,” Eddie says in a rare moment of sincerity. He doesn’t miss the way Richie’s heart beats a bit faster for a second or the falter in his speech. But Richie being Richie, he recovers before Eddie can add something with more bite.

“I was thinking we go back to your room, butt Stan out if he isn’t in class, kiss for a hot minute, and then get hot chocolate and bother Mike when he’s done with his community service.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Sure.” He’s looking forward to all of that, of course. One, Stan pretended not to encourage him and Richie, but Eddie was far too observant to miss Stan’s passing gleaming eyes as he watched them. Two, self-explanatory. Three, hot chocolate was a nice treat and his burning limbs assured he deserved it, and four, Mike Hanlon was sunshine embodied. Any day with him- him _and _Richie, would be a good one. 

“And maybe you can show me that dance one more time,” Richie adds. “Huh? _Huh _?” He winks as Eddie unlocks the door. Eddie’s about to give a protest when he sees Stan seated on his bed, humming as he highlights a bit in his notes. 

Stan looks up. “Getting shit done. Ruin it for me and you’re out of here. Eddie, there’s a sandwich on your desk.” 

“Stan the Man! Are you accusing us of being a disturbance?” Richie takes a seat on Eddie’s bed, dramatically falling back in the neatly made sheets. 

“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” Stan says. 

Looks like part of the plan would be hastily changed, Eddie thinks, and stares at the wrapped food on his desk with a raised brow. He must have been obvious in his puzzlement, because Stan meets his eyes again. “I went out to eat and I know your order.” 

Eddie takes the food with a quiet _thanks _and beckons Richie back to the door. With a groan, Richie gets to his feet. “We just got here, are you already kicking me out, baby?”

As if Eddie’s knees don’t go weak when Richie calls him that, Eddie frowns and opens his door with his shoulder. Richie follows with a showy goodbye to Stan. 

“Let’s go to your room,” Eddie suggests. 

“I love when you talk dirty to me.” Richie had gone mockingly serious. 

Eddie pokes him with his free hand. “We’re gonna relax, eat, and then meet Mike.” 

“Oh, _relax? _That’s what we’re calling it now, okay.” 

“Richie, I’ll never _relax _with you again if you turn my words into an innuendo one more time.”

Richie pouts, but opens the door to find Bill snoring in his bed. Bill, ever the light-sleeper, cocks an eye open the second they step into the room and shut the door. 

Eddie self-consciously removes Richie’s shirt as they take a seat on Richie’s bed. 

“What time is it?” Bill asks in a rush. 

Richie checks a watch that isn’t there and then flicks on his phone. “Eleven thirty-eight.” 

Bill’s expression doesn’t change at all. “I have a class at eleven forty,” he says bluntly. 

“You should probably get going, then,” says Eddie, biting into his sandwich. 

Richie clicks his tongue. “What he said.” 

Bill lets himself gracelessly fall out of bed, and grapples for his book bag before bolting out of the room, leaving Richie and Eddie in a mess of laughter. The slam of the door behind him spurs them on further until Richie’s head is on Eddie’s lap and the sandwich lay forgotten on Richie’s nightstand. 

“He’s gonna smell like pure shit,” Eddie tells Richie. 

Richie nods, lip caught between his teeth from laughing.

Eddie runs a hand through Richie’s hair. Richie’s eyes flutter. Then they dissolve into laughter again when Richie’s phone rings and the caller is none other than Bill. 

“ _Richie, I fucking- fucking forgot my essay. It’s on my desk, can you-” _

Richie hangs up, grabs the few pages. Eddie is busy laughing into a pillow.

“I’ll be back in a jiffy, princess.” Richie salutes to Eddie before attempting to run out the door in the same manner of Bill. Except it’s worse, because he forgets to open the door and bumps his head harshly against the wood instead. Richie doesn’t waste a second before opening it and promptly leaving. 

Eddie cackles wildly, and when he’s gasping for breath, a steady warmth fills his chest. It’s not like being sore after a long day, or like being bundled in a blanket during the winter. It’s definitely something like being in love. Really, really in love. 

**Author's Note:**

> Remember to check out On Pointe if you haven't already because man, I'm literally considering re-reading it after I publish this. Anyways, if you liked this short n sweet fic please leave a kudos or even a comment! It would be really nice,  
Thank you!


End file.
